


Letting Go

by Len



Category: House M.D.
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-28
Updated: 2016-08-28
Packaged: 2018-08-11 15:45:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 769
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7898554
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Len/pseuds/Len
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Greg House is alone again.  Naturally.  Post-'Damned-If-You-Do'</p>
            </blockquote>





	Letting Go

A tumbler of scotch-on-the-rocks sits atop the piano. The condensation is collecting at its base and will surely leave one of those indelible rings the Minwax people are always warning about. He knows that if she were here, she'd squeak in that little dismayed way she has and slide the first coaster she could get her hands on under it.

But she's not here. And while that condensation ring on the glossy black varnish is nothing more than a small man's way of saying, "Ha. I don't need you," it's the only way he has at the moment, so he'll take it. Even though he knows with certainty that she will never see the ring, and wouldn't give a damn anyway, anymore.

Greg takes another swallow from the glass, savoring it, trying to make it last. It's the only one he'll be having that night, dosed as he is on pain meds. He may be a doctor, but he's not stupid. Idly, he plays a few bars of Silver Bells, ending with a flourish.

It's hard to be alone during the holidays. It's even harder to be alone all by yourself during the holidays. At least, that's what Oprah said on her show yesterday, which leads Greg to the conclusion that Oprah has never really been alone in her life. Because in reality, it's hard to be alone all of the time. Christmas, Thanksgiving, Easter, 4th of July, the 24th of March, the 17th of September – each and every one of the three hundred and sixty five days of the year sucks when you have no-one but yourself to look at.

According to Oprah, he had to let go of it if he was ever going to "heal". Again, this led Greg to believe that Oprah had either never let go of anything in her life, or maybe just never held on to anything in the first place. Who in the history of mankind has ever been able to just "let it go"?

He hasn't been able to, if he'd even tried. It's just not something he does – letting things go. He can remember conversations he had with Wilson a year ago verbatim; he can remember that Cameron wore her hair down three weeks ago, Thursday. He remembers insults, he remembers grudges. He remembers favors. And he can remember that flash of something he saw in her eyes today was the same flash he'd seen in them when they'd first met all those years ago.

Theirs wasn't the typical boy-meets-girl story. That would imply some grand, sappy, sugary romance, and quite frankly the idea was too clichéd for either of them to tolerate. It's enough to say that they were friends, once. Very dear, very close friends. And then gradually, they weren't.

And Greg hates it. He hates still remembering about her idiotic coaster fetish. He hates waking up in the morning and still expecting to trip over one of her shoes. He hates how he has to stop himself from following her out of the hospital when the workday is done.

He hates the remorse he feels each and every time he very efficiently snaps her proffered olive branches down the middle. He hates that he can't stop from caring.

In his rare moments of reflective optimism, Greg imagines that all they would have to do to mend things between them would be to utter a simple, sincere, "I'm sorry." But there's a helluva lot of wounded pride between them, and the chances of either one of them owning up to their role in the breakdown are slim to none.

Nevertheless, after Greg downs the last of the scotch, he picks up the phone and dials a number he's never let go, either. It rings one and a half times before he decides she's not home, and hangs up. It's not cowardice, he tells himself. It's common sense. She's not there, so he'll have to try the old "Actions speak louder than words" routine. He'd come in earlier to the Clinic tomorrow. Hell, he might even try to come in _on time._

* * *

 

 

Across town in a tidy, warmly lit apartment, a telephone rang. Lisa Cuddy sets down her Kung Pao chicken to answer it, but hears nothing but the buzzing dial tone. Frowning slightly, she returns to her take-out and the hokey Christmas movie being shown on the Hallmark channel.

It isn't until much later that she scrolls through the numbers on her caller ID and finds a 'G House' at the top of the list, right above her mother. If she is surprised she doesn't show it.

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted at ff.net on 1/25/05. Which is before 'Frozen' came out. :P


End file.
